Dwyer had never met the man before and he looked at him with considerable interest. As befitted a professional earning top money Murdoch dressed with some care. A fastidious killer. His clothes showed taste and proclaimed the fact that he was a gentleman.
His medium length wavy fair hair was topped by a wide-brimmed black hat, slightly curled, slightly dandified, but sober. Just the right touch. The linen shirt of the purest white showed in contrast against the black thin bow-tie and the impeccably cut claw hammer coat. The grey pants hung well. The black low-heeled boots were shining and were of the best quality. No bulging gun spoiled the lines of his clothes.
When he spoke, his accent proclaimed him to be an educated Virginian.
‘Word was brought me,’ he said, his tones soft and well-modulated, ‘that a Mr. Dwyer wished to see me.’
Dwyer rose and said: ‘That’s me.’
‘Proud to know you, sir.’
A soft hand touched Dwyer’s, the cold pale face was lit for a brief moment by a glimmer of a smile.
‘Can we talk?’ Dwyer said.
‘Business, I imagine.’
‘That’s right.’
Murdoch turned to the madam.
‘Would you be good enough to excuse us, madam?’
The woman rose and disappeared without a word into the rear of the house. She was afraid of Murdoch.
The killer waved a hand to the vacated chair. They sat. Murdoch smiled encouragingly.
‘I have work for you in the Three Creeks country,’ Dwyer said.
Murdoch looked at his nails. He sighed.
‘First, I must know the circumstances; second, the subject; third, whether you are able to meet my fee, sir. I come high. Perhaps too high for your purse.’
T work for Ed Brack,’ Dwyer said.
Murdoch raised his eyes and looked at him. They were remarkably pale eyes. Strange, Dwyer thought, but in his experience, all killers of this kind had light-colored eyes.
‘That is an acceptable credential,’ he said.
Dwyer was nettled by his tone. The man acted like a goddam prima donna.
‘Now,’ Murdoch went on, ‘tell who the subject is.’
‘Two of ’em.’
‘Together?’
‘That’s up to you. It should be easy enough to get them separately?’
‘Who are they?’
‘One is Mart Storm.’
Murdoch raised his pale eyebrows. The name meant something to him.
‘I know the name,’ he said. ‘And the other?’
‘Joe Widbee.’
That name also meant something to Murdoch. He smiled coldly.
‘You have certainly found yourself some strong opposition,’ he said. ‘Eliminating them will be an expensive business.’ He studied his fingernails closely. They were well-cared for. ‘The Negro is not only good with guns of all kinds, but he is remarkably adept in wild country.’
Dwyer felt an urge to get under this man’s skin.
‘Does that mean you can’t handle him?’
‘Let us not forget our manners, Mr. Dwyer,’ he said. ‘There’s no man living that cannot be handled, as you put it. Giving this Negro the treatment in the Three Creeks country presents problems which will keep the price high, that is all.’
‘Does that mean that you would want other men to help?’ Dwyer asked.
Murdoch looked shocked.
‘Dear me, no,’ he said. ‘I would never consent to work with anybody else. That makes for untidiness. If I accept your fee I assure you that both subjects will be removed without trace. Nobody will be aware that I am even in the country. Clean, painless execution is guaranteed. No evidence, no come-back. Nothing but the best for your good self and Mr. Brack.’
‘Let’s talk money, then,’ Dwyer said.
‘By all means,’ Murdoch said, ‘but may I suggest that we do so in a civilized manner over dinner. Join me at my hotel in an hour and we shall enjoy the best that Denver has to offer. The wines, I assure you, are excellent.’
They arranged to meet and Dwyer departed. Over dinner that night he came to an agreement with Murdoch. The price was breathtakingly high, but after some ineffectual haggling, Dwyer agreed to it. He felt he should have awaited Ed Brack’s consent, but he deemed that the situation was dangerous enough for him to take action on his own. When Brack heard just who was in the Three Creeks country he would fall in with Dwyer’s arrangements. Storm and Widbee had to be removed before they consolidated their position. It was spring, the trail grass was up and, if Dwyer knew Texas cattlemen, before too long there would be Texas cows on the Three Creeks grass. Brack’s winter grass would be eaten away. He agreed to pay Murdoch half of the agreed sum now and half on delivery. There should be no more personal contact between the two men. Satisfied, he went to bed. The following morning, he headed for home.
As for Ira Murdoch, he decided that there should be no delay in carrying out his agreement. He had lived well in Denver and cash was running low. He had a wife back home in Virginia and he saw to it that she wanted for nothing. Regularly he sent her money so that she could live to the standard to which she was accustomed. So long as she kept her distance from him, he would look after her. He would have ridden out for the Three Creeks country that very day, but there was fine dark girl at Moira’s he hadn’t had and he thought it would be nice to do so before he ventured womanless into the mountain country.
When he rode out the following day, he wore plain woolen clothes of somber colors, suitable for the rough travelling he had ahead of him. He scorned buckskin. Nothing in his opinion was less fitted for a man working in the open. After it was wet it dried to the consistency of a board; in hot weather it made the wearer hotter; in cold weather it did nothing to protect him. No, the wear for the mountain trails was wool.
He rode a fine buckskin horse with a respectable Henry rifle in immaculate condition under his right leg. From his saddle horn hung a shotgun by Greener of London. Nothing but the best for Ira Murdoch. Under his short coat on the right side hung a Colt’s gun, .38 caliber, five shots, with four of the chambers loaded. Around his neck he wore a sober bandanna of dark blue; on his head his customary black hat. He still favored low-heeled boots and could not abide the high heels of a cattleman. A gentleman rode with no more than his toes in the stirrup iron. In his saddlebags, he carried two changes of underwear and a set of good German razors. He liked to be clean-shaven on the trail and hated to be unshaven when executing a man.
He rode with a light heart, for he enjoyed his work. It wasn’t so much the killing of a fellow man that excited him, but the organization, the skill that led up to the final coup. There was a sort of pride of pitting himself against two such men as Mart Storm and Joe Widbee. It was a pity that he could not boast of being the means of their demise after the job was done. But he would never mention it to any man. Discretion was what his clients paid for and he had never failed any man once he had contracted to do a job. He would slip in quietly through the rear door to the Three Creeks country, execute his men and quietly slip away again. Nobody would ever know he had been within miles of the place.
He had studied the map of the country, such as it was, for several hours and its shape was imprinted on his mind. He surveyed it now as he rode, planning his route. He would ride parallel to the valley until he reached the tangled country to the south of it and then, having left his horse on grass, he would go silent as a stalking lion into the Three Creeks and make his kill.
He was confident, but he did not fool himself that it was going to be easy. Joe Widbee was too old a hand in rough country for it to be that. The Negro would have to be stalked with the skill necessary to track down a particularly spooky deer. Mart Storm would be a different proposition. He would not be so difficult to get near, but he was one of the fastest and most accurate men in the business. He was also cool.
However, Murdoch comforted himself, nobody could protect himself against a shot in the back. All he had to do was get these men in his
sights and pull the trigger.
He promised himself that he would pick up the other half of his fee within a couple of weeks.
Chapter Seven
Joe Widbee had a hunch.
It was no more than a hunch, but Will respected it, for he had known too many of Joe’s hunches to come off not to. The Negro’s hunch was that, if the Broken Spur crew ventured into the valley, they would come cautiously and they would come from the west. Joe argued this before he went to take up his post on a high ridge to the west of the creeks. He made his case earnestly and Will knew that he wasn’t a man to waste words, so he listened. They talked as Joe stood by the corral ready to head out to his listening post.
‘You don’t think it’ll be too far from the house?’ Will asked.
‘No, I don’t,’ Joe replied. ‘Daytime, I kin see the house from up there. I kin see the hull valley. I kin see west too. They come from the east, you goin’ to see ’em right clear across the valley. They come from the north, you goin’ to see ’em just as good. But if they come in from the west, you ain’t goin’ to see ’em a-tall till they hits the cricks.’
That was true and Will knew it.
‘But you ain’t takin’ a horse, Joe,’ Will said. ‘You’re goin’ to be awful slow in gettin’ down to us if you’re needed.’
‘I take horse up there,’ Joe said, ‘it a plain give-away. No, sir, no horse. Joe’s goin’ to sit up there nice an’ quiet till the squirrels git used to him.’
‘You might be up there for days, man.’
‘Maybe. It no never mind. You see.’
He hefted the pack of supplies Martha had made up for him and trudged off. Will watched him wade the first creek, then the second. Shortly after, he disappeared into the lower line of the timber. Melissa thought it an awful shame Joe had to go. She liked having Joe around. He spoiled her. Then, everybody else did too.
Joe, who had ridden the ridges around the valley and used his eyes to good purpose, knew exactly the spot he was headed for. It was reaching dusk when he reached the small natural fortress in the rocks that he had remembered and here he cached his supplies. Here he exchanged his boots for Kiowa moccasins, left his battered wide-brimmed hat and put his head through a hole in a Mexican poncho. It got chill in the hills at night. Then, with his rifle in his hand, he softly scaled the steep slope to the top of the ridge, passed over it till he was below the skyline and found the place which he intended should be his night-time sentinel post. Here he found a boulder, settled himself down with his back against it and at once slipped into a light doze. He knew that for several days he might not get any real deep sleep, so he was sure going to rest up all he could. Broken Spur were going to be awfully surprised if they moved in on the Storm place and found a man behind them.
Will, he decided, was too soft. His rules were simple. He was a guileful, skilful man, but he was also a simple man. If a man tried to push you around, you warned him. If he didn’t stay warned, you killed him. The truth of this had been proved to him on more than one occasion. It must be right or he wouldn’t be alive now. Will’s mistake was that he thought that all men believed in right and justice as he did; he also thought that some form of civilization had come to the frontier. He was mistaken. The law of the claw and tooth held good still. Men talked about law and even in some places there were men paid to enforce the law, but the law they enforced belonged to the strong and the powerful of this world. Fellows like Joe had to look out for themselves.
If Broken Spur came into this valley again with blood in their eyes, they were going to leave some dead men behind. That would deter them from thinking of hitting the Storms again.
Joe had thought further than that. He hadn’t said anything to Will for fear of alarming him, but decided quietly to himself and a little to Mart, that, knowing Ed Brack as he did, that the big man wouldn’t send cowhands against men like him and Mart the next time. He would send gunmen. Brack had used gunmen in the past and most men were creatures of habit. Dwyer would send word to Brack and the word would go out. A few professionals would drift into the country, men used to killing from ambush. Will thought he had a straightforward cow-country war on his hands, but he was mistaken. He didn’t have anything of the kind.
All Brack wanted was results in the most economic way and in the shortest possible time. That meant gun-hands. And gun-hands worked from cover. That meant they had to come into the valley by the tangled west wall. They could get to within rifle-shot of the house under good cover.
He reasoned further. It wouldn’t be too long before the professionals were here. If the Storms were staking claims to the valley, there had to be cows here soon. They were cattlemen. That meant that Ed Brack’s winter graze would be cropped short. So the Storms had to go before the cattle came in. The drive up from Texas would start when the spring grass was up. The grass would be greening on the trail right now.
Joe smiled to himself. He’d settle the Broken Spur hash, see Will established here, then he’d move off into the wild country where a man could ride for days without seeing another man. He’d maybe hunt mustang, hunt for the pot, maybe winter with the Indians as he had done so often in the past. He could speak a smattering of Cheyenne and Kiowa. Maybe he’d head north and learn him some Ute.
He slept content, waking every now and then to look and listen. He was ready for action, but he did not think they would come in the dark. This would be strange country to them and they would want to know where they were at.
Chapter Eight
As he had promised himself, Ira Murdoch found good grass the right amount of miles south-west of the Three Creeks. It was a wild and beautiful spot, but it didn’t look as beautiful to him as the gaming tables of Denver City. He was a curious man, for, while he despised the wilds, he was not without skill in them. He had needed to be over the years, for he had done several major jobs in places as wild even as this.
He hobbled his horse in a pleasant little valley that looked as though it had never been visited by man. All around him the vast peaks of the sierra showed their snowy heads. He had to admit that the air was like wine here and he found it refreshingly bracing.
He camped there the night, not too near the small creek that meandered there. To sleep near running water was a mistake, for the sound could swamp any faint noise that should be an alarm signal. He washed carefully in the crystal clear water, replenished the water in his canteen and retired to a sheltered spot among the rocks. He was tempted to light a fire and enjoy a good cup of coffee, but he thought better of it. He was a fair distance from Three Creeks, but that damned Negro had sharp eyes. He slept soundly, rose with the dawn, saw that the main bulk of his supplies and his saddle and bridle were safely cached and, wearing a fine pair of Cheyenne moccasins made for him by the daughter of a chief, and rifle in hand, he set off into the north-east.
He walked all day, not hurrying, for hurrying made him sweat and he hated to sweat. The day was hot and the insects were a nuisance. They bothered him more as the day wore on and by the time night came down on him, he really wished that he hadn’t accepted this commission. His timing was good, however, and he reached the ridge above the valley he wanted at the time he had decided on. He congratulated himself. Ahead of him now was a little climbing, then a short walk and he would be in position for his dawn shot. He hoped that luck would be with him and that he would have both Mart and Joe in his sights.
He started up the ridge in front of him and reached its summit in broad moonlight, finding beneath him a valley that stretched away beyond his sight. Uncertain of whether this was the Three Creeks Valley or not, he started down the far side. The going wasn’t easy, for the hillside was fantastically broken in places and there were long stretches that were covered with scatterings of giant boulders and almost impenetrable brush. At times he crossed places that were strewn with scattered rocks that made it impossible to move in the silence that he preferred. This did not worry him unduly, however, for he thought it unlikely that there would be anybody
up here to hear him.
A short time after he reached the flat, he came through the grass to a creek. He looked across this to more water farther on that glistened in the moonlight. This gave him his position. He must now be within a mile or two of the Storm house. So far so good. He would now locate the house and hold it under observation. If he got a chance to shoot both his victims, all well and good. If he didn’t, he would have the opportunity to observe their movements and the layout of the place, all of which would help him plan his coup.
He tried to find a dry crossing of the first creek, but he could not, so, in some disgust, he waded over waist-deep in water, holding his guns high. He hated to get his feet wet and knew that he would be miserable and damp in the chill night air. Shivering a little, he made his way diagonally across the valley to the second creek and here was able to find a ford. He crossed with the water no higher than his knees. On going forward again, he now kept his eyes open for the house itself. But he missed it and would have gone on much too far across the valley had he not heard a horse whinny. He knew the animal might be loose on the valley grass, but he thought the sound worth investigating. So, turning back, he stumbled on the house.
It lay silent in the moonlight, raised slightly on a knoll, the timber cleared back from it. He reckoned the Storms had chosen their spot well. This was a good, defensible position. He circled the place, carefully to keep clear of the corral so that he would not disturb the horses and made his way once more across the creek and climbed a little, finding good cover in rocks and brush from which he could observe the house in comfort and safety. Well, as much comfort as wet clothes would allow. He removed his moccasins and dried his feet. Then he did his best to sleep a little. He would need to be alert and rested by dawn. He was chilled, but not despondent. He thought that so far he had done very well.
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